The Right Amount of Trust
by markofthemoros
Summary: When poor intel causes a mission to go horribly wrong, Steve finds himself between rock and the hard place. Out-numbered and with Barton severely injured, the Captain has little choice left if he values to safeguard the life of his teammate. When the archer's condition grows more dire, will Steve find them help in time? No romance/relationship.


**AN: For **Elillierose**.**

**A gift fic for friend. I'm sorry it took me this long, hun! I hope you likes!**

**My first fic to this fandom. Co-conspirators, beta readers and wicked minds behind wicked things: **Sinikka_von_Wolperting** and **DragonRiderSayomi**. Much thanks for your insight & all the small things~**

**Tags: Canon-Typical Violence; Injury; Hurt Clint Barton; Protective Steve Rogers; Missions Gone Wrong; Blood and Injury; Whump; Clint Barton Whump**

* * *

"Seriously?" Natasha's head dropped forward, brow rising with a smirk that called bullshit. "_'The Eye of Hulda?'_"

Leaning back on the couch opposite, the god of thunder gave a take-it-or-leave-it shrug. "I'm afraid I wasn't around to have a say in the naming. I was delayed by...yeah, a good few millennia, give or take a few."

"Years?"

"Centuries."

"So that makes you," Tony Stark pointed a finger at the demigod, "-what, a juvenile on Asgardian scale?"

"As a matter of fact, I reached adulthood 684 years ago."

The inventor's face fell, but soon an artificially pleasant expression settled back on, and with a small nod, he raised a glass to his teammate. "Time has done you some _considerable_ favors, mate."

Amusement dimmed into thoughtfulness as Thor leaned forward. He brought his hands together, fingertips touching, and fixed Tony with a patient look, one of a father about to explain something very difficult to a child. "Well, actually, that statement is false in two different ways. Firstly, as a universally immaterial concept, Time is hardly capable of performing any task whatsoever, including favors. And even so, in Asgard, the very essence of time presents itself differently-"

He fell silent, his head tilting as a distant, approaching thumping reached his ears. It seemed to come from the corridor, and it sounded hurried. The discussion had effectively died down as others' attention followed suit. "What the-?"

A familiar voice echoed from behind the glass paneling. "Banneeer?!"

The collective gasp that filled the room as the doors opened with a low 'pssh' was like a gun being held to the temples of all of them.

Not wasting a second, Captain America stomped through the doorway, still calling for the doctor. An angry shade appeared into his tone. By his side, he dragged along a slumped figure that still resembled a human being. Supported upright solely by the arm wrapped around the Captain's shoulders and one of the Captain's own coming around his waist, Hawkeye was dreadfully pallid, his form prone.

"Jesus…" Bruce pushed himself off the armchair and hurried to meet the men halfway across the room, where Steve was still hauling unconscious Barton toward them.

Even a lesser mind than any of those present would have been able to figure out the severity of the situation. The downed man was looking pale, and even though unconscious, he was still shivering. His skin was clammy and cool to the touch, and most of his right thigh was covered in bloodstained gauzes; two of the man's arrow bodies were weaved into the mix on both sides of his thigh.

There was shallow, ragged breathing.

Banner's eyes narrowed as he took note of the man's condition. "What happened?!"

"It was a bust!" Steve snapped out, lowering his warded cargo to the floor. "The whole op went-"

"...Pear-shaped?" the archer cocked his head to the side, offering his teammate a conspiratory grin.

The Captain hissed out an amused breath, shaking his head. "That's your type? To have a little...something to grab on?"

Barton didn't dignify him with repeating the obvious as he just shrugged and spread his arms with a look that asked 'what else is there'?

"Well, second that," Steve's lips spread into a warm smile, but he was looking at nothing. Or rather, something that had not been present for a long time now. His eyes held a dreamy haze like he was gazing back at another time, another life...

Perhaps his company noticed the shift in the atmosphere - perhaps less to his liking, for the man cleared his throat and pulled an awkward hand through his hair. "So, uhm...what exactly are we hoping to find here?"

"Well. HYDRA still used this lab up until two days ago. Residual data of what they're on about might still exist on the physical hard drive of the main frame. Ideally."

"And, less than ideally?"

"A wasted effort."

"Great," the agent shrugged, but the pitch of that was just a tad too light, just a little too rehearsed. "Not like I had anything better to do on my Saturday."

"Why? You've got your pear-shaped waiting for you somewhere?"

The archer didn't have time to retort as a chillying 'crunch' had the man walking just a few feet next to him freeze dead in his tracks. A series of loud, high-pitched beeps pierced their ears as the token underneath Captain's foot got crushed.

The men's eyes met each other before-

"Dodge!"

The burst of dirt and undergrowth shot up from the ground the second the release of pressure detonated the small mine. Scraps of it seared the Captain's leg as he, faster than a cat on steroids, leaped out from the way of the explosion. Within seconds, shouts and the rumble of engines being ignited echoed from their intended direction. Rogue bullets fired at their general direction and embedded themselves into tree trunks way off to the left.

"Well," Barton cocked his head to the side as he readied his bow, "not as abandoned as we assumed."

"Amazing. The mission's still on. Take out as many as you have to, but head for the bunker."

"Roger that." He was already dashing when the rustling of leaves shot past him in a flash of color and a whisk of his commander's cologne. "...Show off."

Captain met them head on. Sending his shield flying, he knocked out the closest few easily before diving down for his protection again. Grabbing it tightly, he crouched and brought the shield up as the roar of the engine reached him. Equipped with a mini-gun, the jeep was headed straight toward him; an array of bullets pelleted his cover. Steve's teeth clenched as he, supporting his defences with both arms, was forced to back up a couple of steps as the force of the metal rained upon him grew overwhelming.

The explosion was enough to throw him off balance. The gunfire, however, died down as the vehicle went up in flames and swayed before tipping over. Rolling over a few times, the metal inferno crashed into a tree, contorting in almost half as the trunk prevailed under the mass colliding it.

Steve snorted as he eyed the wreckage. He owed Barton one.

In the distance, angry voices were shouting something indistinct in Russian. Steve couldn't grasp all of it, but he did make out 'find them' and references to their direction.

This wasn't going at all as planned.

It didn't make sense. The facility was supposed to be abandoned.

It was Barton's own intel...

Bringing a hand to his ear, as he broke into a run toward the source of the motor roars, Steve demanded, "Hawkeye, what's your location?!"

_"About half a mile to the target, east corner."_ A short pause. _"Could use a hand here."_

"Hold on! I'm coming."

There was an intermittent grunt. _"Yeah..._no sweat._"_ Another, and a distant 'twang' as the string probably released something flying with an unusually high velocity.

It wasn't in the man's nature to ask for help. Swallowing down his apprehension, Steve forced his legs to go a little faster. All that genetic enhancement had better work in his favor now, dammit! He rounded a patch of trees - to take in the figure backing up in the midst of the flippant cover provided by the trees and terrain. Barton sent off arrow after another as he tried to fend off the men in HYDRA uniforms and gasmasks, aiming to surround him. Behind the frontline, a light field artillery was rolled up the hill, coming to alignment with the archer's position.

The men weren't the issue, though.

Nor was even the artillery.

It was the cliff the man was unassumingly backing off toward. His attention in front of him, movement unpremeditated and risky, Steve could tell that he wasn't aware of the impending danger he was driving himself toward.

"Hawk! Look out!"

He moved before the words had left his lips. Laying all his unique physique on the line, Captain America charged toward the enemy lines advancing on his partner.

There were shouts, orders yelled out before the star-spangled warrior clashed with the troops. Their attention now divided between the two Avengers, the HYDRA soldiers froze in indecision to which one they should target. A benefit of the doubt neither hero was willing waste.

It took a single, carefully planted arrow to lay waste to the artillery. The resulting explosion threw the Captain off a little, and on instinct his gaze flew to the direction of the archer. But it was difficult to tell a person dressed in dark from the mass of men dressed in dark on one glance - and as the precious moments dissipated on determining which one of the dark shapes was the man he was interested in safeguarding, HYDRA saw their chance and took it.

It all happened so fast. Too fast. There was the distressed cry from Hawkeye, yelling for him to look out. Only when it sunk in that the archer was taking aim at something behind him did the Captain realize his folly.

The shield flew in front of him before the thought had properly formulated. However, he was fractions of a second too late as the HYDRA soldier pointing his assault rifle at the First Avenger already pulled the trigger.

The tiny 'chink' in the midst of the rattling of the guns was like the a mission bell in a thunderstorm. Like spoon tapping the side of a crystal glass as the bullet hit the vibranium.

The gunman's aim went wild as the arrow sunk into his side. He fell over with his finger still squeezing the trigger, sending a spray of bullets at any target unlucky enough to get caught in the fray before the hold loosened up as strength fled the fading man.

That wasn't what had the Captain's heart rising up to his throat, though. The immediateness of his own end barely a ghost of a thought at that point.

It was the choked-up, surprised groan of pain dishearteningly close-by. Steve's attention snapped to the direction of his partner just in time to see Barton's body colliding with the ground, the bow slipping from his grip.

"Hawk!"

On the ground, Hawkeye rolled over to his side, almost doubled over as he clutched his right thigh. As his face contorted in agony, the commands to advance shouted in Russian broke through Steve's reverie.

In the milliseconds it took for intention to reach his muscles, the commander did the math. That about forty versus one and a severely injured left him at poor and Barton at much worse odds.

His mind made up, he crossed the distance to the downed man in a fraction of a second. Barton chomped on his lip to stifle the shout as he was hoisted up none too gently. He let out wordless grunts of pain even as Steve hauled him over his shoulder, wrapping an arm around the man's middle to keep him in place. The loose position was sure to irritate his leg further, but Barton would just have to bear with it for the time being.

His glance flying from the discarded bow to the HYDRA soldiers renewing their aim over the sudden turn of tables in their favor, the Captain made up his mind in roughly half a heartbeat. Throwing all his extensive ability on the line, he dashed. The shield rose to safeguard himself -and most importantly, his injured comrade- as the rattling of rifles restarted in their wake. Rogue bullets ricocheted off the metal again as the pursuers got left behind like a grounded ship.

All the while, Barton let out small grunts and poorly held-back gasps as his body got jostled, the injured leg not excluded. As the Captain uttered a barely worded apology, he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. For the rough treatment the soldier would just have to put up with for a few moments longer until they reached the Quinjet? Or that he couldn't stop? Barton's discarded bow? His own carelessness?

He cursed under a breath as Barton went unnervingly still.

He had to hurry.

Locating the vessel in record-time, the Captain rushed them both inside the airship. As carefully as he could despite the haste with the way the echo of the engines hunted them down in the distance, Steve lowered his companion to sit against the wall. Taking a quick note of the other's condition -sweat-sheened and paler than usual, eyes half-lidded and glazed over as the archer studied his surroundings- the Captain swallowed nothing.

His pant leg was sticking to the skin ominously, the obvious wetness glistening nauseatingly on the dark fabric. Barton's breaths were turning to light panting.

"Hey." Steve shook the other's shoulder, and to his relief, the injured man grunted in affirmation. All but jumping on his feet, the Captain retrieved a towel. "Use that."

Only nodding, the archer pressed the fabric against his thigh. A disheartening moan of pain slipped out as he added pressure. The commander's brows furrowed, but without a word, he went for his belt. Barton probably read his intention from the gesture alone since he gave another nod - but as the belt was secured around his thigh and the Captain grabbed the excess, ready to tighten...the man swallowed slow to brace himself.

All the bracing in the world wouldn't have done him any good as paralyzing agony shot up his thigh.

His head flew back with the initial shout, the scream burning his throat as he fought it under control. The Captain gave him a hard look, but sighing as he pushed himself back on his feet. "That'll have to do until we're clear. Stay there and keep the pressure on. I'll get us airborne."

"Sure," the archer hissed between clenched teeth as the worst of it rolled over him. "I'll just...stick around. Not like...much...choice."

Ignoring the sting, Steve rolled his eyes at his partner's antics even as he scurried to the cockpit. Steady tremors soon vibrated throughout the frame as the ship took off.

The tremendous boom shook the entire vessel. Biting his lip, the injured Avenger let out a muffled groan as the force of the impact threw him off balance a little, a fresh fire fulminating up and over his leg and lower abdomen. The blaring siren drilling into his ears did little to ease the throbbing as his stomach clenched in an acute threat to upend itself. Swallowing deep a few times, he managed to steady it enough to trust it wasn't looking to empty its contents immediately anymore. Only then did he dare to gulp in much needed air.

There were more booms, but luckily fainter, as if distant now. The initial tremors had subsided back into far more tolerable in-flight rumbling. Barton breathed out another sigh of relief as the constant shaking no longer bore into his brain like small drills. And as his bearings steadied a little, the pulsing tearing registered in more detail...

Well. There was one thing he was almost certain of now. With pain of this degree...and the warm, wet sensation not only on the _frontside_ of his thigh but also on the back… Very carefully, he shifted his hips in an attempt to upset the leg as little as possible as he rolled it over enough to reach around, and tugged at the edge of the towel to peek underneath.

He breathed out a mix of relief and resentment. Right there, as he had expected: the fabric of his suit now matted with blood but most importantly, torn to shreds where the bullet had exited as it had pierced through.

"Aw, man…" he grimaced. "Laura's gonna be pissed…"

The slightly jumbled up cursing drifted to his ears from the cockpit.

The Captain hurried back, the first aid kit under his arm as he rubbed his hands together; the scent of antiseptic hit the archer's nose. "I have good news and bad news."

"What's...the good news?"

"I've got us on autopilot."

"That's...the upside?!"

"The bad news is, they shot out our communications. We're on our own. Now," he kneeled next to the tied leg, "let me see it."

"It's gone through," the archer unfastened the binding, but did keep on pressing on the wound from both sides as the Captain felt around his thigh. Barton's teeth made a sharp, scraping noise not unlike a match being drawn against the striking surface as the prodding sent jolts of white-hot agony up his lower back, even though Steve tried to do as little damage as he could to determine the inevitable:

"Fractured," the Captain muttered as he examined the musculature around the archer's femur.

"More like….splintered," the man grimaced as he tugged his injured leg into a better position - at a cost if the whine of distress was anything to go by.

"Lesser evil. I'm not having you bleeding out on me." Steve grabbed the fabric tightly with both hands and ripped it apart. The resulting, intermittent lovechild of a gasp and a shout clenched Hawkeye's throat up in its wake as it left his seeing sparkles that burned where they trailed.

"Wouldn't...do much...for the team spirit, would it?" the agent grinned through his obvious pain. He had paled further. "'Go, Avengers. Wo-hoo!'"

The commander gave him a look, but it carried a laugh. "Is spewing that going to stop you from bleeding faster?"

"No, sir. It...certainly isn't."

"Then how about piping it until you're no longer rusting the flooring? You know how Stark gets about it," Steve scoffed but even as he did, the man was already wrapping the bindings around the leg. Then, as though he had just come to think about it, he gave the man a quick once-over.

"Where're your arrows?" Grunting, the other shifted his weight on one arm as he, reading the intention, reached to detach two from their heads and a bit shakily handed them over. "Thanks."

Barton's eyebrow rose at the offered stack of gauze. "Bite on this." Knowing what was coming, the man couldn't help the gulp, although he did as he was told and chomped down on the soft roll as the commander twisted the ends of the gauze into a loose knot - and tightened.

Given, it stopped him from biting through his lip. But the roll did nothing to smother the groan that left him as the pain shot through him again like a whiplash of fire.

His vision swam. Nothing but high-pitched ringing in his head for a moment, what anchored him back was the eventual sturdy pressure on his shoulder.

"You with me?"

He tried to answer, but as far as he knew, the best that came out was a mutter. His company seemed satisfied with that, though. "That should hold until we reach the Tower. Try not to move it. It looks like it's swelling up pretty good, but the bleeding seems to be stopping." He gave the man a contemplating look. "How bad is it?"

"A...awesome," the injured mad rolled his eyes. Sweat beads trailed down his cheek and neck, and his slower breaths hissed in his teeth.

Steve just scoffed. What had he expected? If Clint Barton was something, it was stubborn, and a blown mission would only rub the man wrong. Not that the Captain was feeling particularly proud of himself, either.

"Hey." He waited until he had the man's attention. Glazed eyes were shifting as if he tried to focus on him, and while concerning, the situation considering supposedly the man could be excused. "Thanks."

There was something else he should say, he knew it, and the blue gaze lingered on the makeshift cast, but the words refused to come. They dangled before him, just beyond his reach as the injured man sucked in a sharper breath.

"Yeah, no...no prob." Although the scowl that visited his paling features would have suggested the opposite. Nonetheless, the man fought through it as he forced his breath under control and wrestled on a more neutral expression. "Can't leave the team...without the Captain."

Flashing a brief smirk, the Captain brought his hands together in front of him as he crouched down. Amusement drained from his expression. "...I'd say that went well," he scoffed. A tiny voice, a different one than before, wanted to bring up the contradiction nagging in the back of his head. The intel… How on earth had the scout got it so wrong? The place was obviously far from abandoned, the caliber of the armaments and vehicles considering.

Now wasn't the time, though. Not as the man noticeably stifled his groans of pain, but his hand found its way to the bandages nonetheless.

"Hey," authority embedded itself into his voice. "How bad? Tell me straight."

"I'll live…" He fell silent at the disapproving look of his captain. Averting his eyes, he visibly mulled it over before reluctantly admitting, "Not dandy…"

Steve nodded, looking thoughtful. "The plane has nothing for pain of that caliber onboard, you'll just have to deal with it. Tell me if it gets worse. Top speed, we'll be back in four hours."

Barton quietly groaned, "Amazing."

The Captain said nothing more on the matter, though. The least he could offer was to spare Barton what little dignity he could. And perhaps it was better to mull this whole mess over on his own at first, anyway.

Where had the operation gone so royally bonkers? Why was the information relayed by his partner directly so critically out of order? In what form and manner had he slipped up so bad that his failure to respond had resulted in a grave injury?

They were lucky it hadn't ended up worse. Forcing his mind from the gutter, he refused to travel down that path. This was inexcusable as it was. He'd worry about that later, though. Now, he'd have to get Hawkeye back to the Tower where they could properly treat the leg. That make-shift cast was a joke at best, but it'd have to do.

As he observed the padded metal walls, the flooring -anything to avoid uncomfortable eye contact, really- Cap made a mental note to equip the Quinjet with appropriate first aid fit to deal with a severe injury. The current measures were more fit to treat an emergency paper cut, and as an afterthought he scolded himself for lack of premeditation. Was it out of pride that they hadn't prepared better? Out of arrogance? Had they grown so self-assured that they had subconsciously disregarded the risk of serious injury on route? What a foolish thought. One Barton was currently paying for dearly.

Speaking of.

Barton hung his head, it lolling to the side a little as turbulence shook the ship.

"How're you doing?"

The response more a croak than actual attempt at communication, but it sounded lucid enough. The man still didn't look at him, but he flicked his wrist in acknowledgement. At least the archer was still with him. There was only a little reddening that had seeped through the gauze, too, so that was something. The leg was visibly swollen by now, but suppose that was to be expected. At least it didn't seem out of alignment. Silver linings.

He left the man mostly alone, for it was clear that Hawk wasn't exactly in the mood to talk. He did check on him every now and then, though, mainly to make sure that the other was still sentient. He doubted that the agent would have admitted it even if the pain was intensifying, so he took Barton's word for it when the man claimed that there had been no change. Luckily, the bleeding had mostly stopped, for only minimal coloring had seeped through his bindings.

For the first hour, there was little out of the ordinary. Steve pretended to busy himself with fiddling through the various cabinets, making an inventory of their equipment. It was more for a show, though, a token of respect as he at least tried not to make it seem like he was over worried. Barton seemed to appreciate it, too, for while he remained scant with words, when they did talk, there was an inkling of gratitude, a quiet display of taking kindly the Captain's effort to spare him a mirage of privacy.

But as they left continental Europe behind, the exhaustion was finally starting to get the better of the stubborn soldier. The man was making small sounds of distress, though, and it was becoming more frequent. His bravado was a wasted effort when he was so obviously in pain. But Barton insisted on putting up his antics, and while rather pointless, the sharp intakes and held-back noises of discomfort he managed to hang on to even in his current state...the Captain had to admit it was impressive. A lesser man would have been faring far worse -would probably be unconscious by now- so that considering, Barton was doing surprisingly well.

They were halfway across the Atlantic when the archer's mask finally began to crumble.

Cap could tell that he was slipping under when barely held-back whimpers carried across the small space.

"Barton?"

His only reply was the quiet, little raggedy panting. The agent's fingers dug into the muscle on both sides of the penetration wound, but it did him little good, it seemed, as the small breaths carried out evidence of his agony. Hawkeye didn't even look at him.

"Barton?!" Captain grabbed his shoulder - and his hand shot off the man like he had suddenly burned him as the archer's body flopped to the side from the weight of his touch. Like he was a ragdoll carefully balanced to stay upright and that small disruption was enough to tip him over.

Cap caught him before he hit the floor. "Hey?!" This time, there was a response. Half delirious, Barton's groan was voicing the obvious confusion rising in him as Steve helped him back to a more sitting position. That being relative; slumped against the wall, the agent's face glistened with sweat and he was growing tired of trying to conceal his difficulty to breathe as his eyes swam around a little. His teeth chattered together, but he didn't seem to even notice it.

"I'm...feelin' quite shi'y, yo."

"Don't talk," came out harsher than Steve had intended. He tried to make amends by adding a softer, "Save your strength." He half-expected his hand to be slapped away as he reached for the man's neck - but to his surprise, the man barely even flinched as the Captain went for his pulse.

A frown settled over the commander's face. The skin was cool, and there were rapid, fluttery beats beneath his fingers. "You're going into shock," Steve ground out between clenched teeth as his eyes roamed the injury as if looking for any indication that he might have missed that could explain why Barton was suddenly waning. A little more blood had seeped through the bindings, but hardly enough to explain such a decline. Unless…

Unless.

"Damn it…" Almost through a haze he saw how the archer's lips formulated the question, but he wasn't half in the state of sureness to voice his doubt. Pretending not to catch that, the Captain promptly maneuvered an arm behind the man's back. "Come on. We need to get you on your back."

As soon as he had the younger man settled down, he hopped to retrieve the ship's foil blanket. Why hadn't he sooner?! Not only was the pain of the fracture plenty enough to cause a delayed shock in itself, there was still the possibility of a more serious trauma. The bleeding didn't look that much, but there could be some internal. Scrolling through the few cabinets storing first aid items, Captain soon let out a curt 'ha' of relief as he laid eyes on the moss green package. He was already unwrapping it as he hassled back to where Barton hadn't moved a muscle since he had left him.

As carefully as he could, Steve tucked the blanket around and underneath the agent's legs. Barton didn't make a sound except for the raggedy breaths; the Captain's teeth grit tighter at a glance at the time.

Still almost an hour. And the ship was already running at maximum velocity.

He couldn't boost that. Barton would just have to hold on. "You're not going out on me. Stay with me," he muttered, perhaps more to himself than his fading ward.

"Yeah," Barton managed between labored breaths. "Not...planning on."

"We're still almost an hour to New York," the Captain crouched down and rested his elbows on his knees. Observing Barton's condition was the best he could do for now. At the lack of a response more than an exhausted huff, he went on:

"You'll need medical treatment. You may be bleeding internally. Nothing we can do about that before we reach the HQ."

"'Ll'ive."

Steve managed to stop himself from blurting out that Barton was probably too stubborn to die if he tried. It wasn't the time and place. Besides - the agent was doing a worrisomely good job at it. Snorting to himself, he settled for: "Try not to talk. We're almost there."

The warrior heeded the soft order with simply a shaky nod and an agreeing grunt. Silence reigned for the best part of half an hour. Steve frequented the cockpit to make sure everything was in order, but the majority of the time he spent with Barton. He laid limp and eyes closed, but the irregular whines of pain rising from him diffused any illusions of sleep. He hadn't moved, as the Captain supposed the last of his remaining strength was well invested in keeping himself from fainting.

It was fine. As long as Barton had it in him to hold on to consciousness, whatever was sapping his strength wasn't getting overwhelming. There was another concern nagging in the back of Steve's mind, though. What if Banner wasn't at the HQ? Theoretically, Steve had little reason to think he had left, considering that the facility offered him more than enough resources for all his needs. But one could never know. Stark was almost as skilled in the field as Banner was, surely, but his absence was far more likely, and if the both were missing, he wasn't confident anyone likely to be present was skilled enough to perform a surgery, even with Jarvis's insight. He knew he himself wasn't. If he were to try, Barton would likely die. And rushing him to a hospital would be wasting precious time...

If only he could contact them, dammit-!

His train of thought was interrupted as the silence was broken by the now clearly groggy agent:

"Hey…'ey Cap?"

Steve held himself back from rolling eyes. How many times did he have to tell him to stop talking...? But there was something in the way Barton was clearly putting in effort to look at him while he spoke. His breaths were labored and it was obviously a chore to keep his eyes at focus….but he was trying. Hard. "Yes?"

"Hey, uh...the's...the's this place. Out in...in Iowa, Fury kno'sit…" the voice was weak; it was clearly a struggle to speak. "I'...if sum'in 'appens…"

"Barton-"

"If...sumthin' happens, I want ya tah...I want you to...go 'ere. Te-tell 'em…"

"Tell who?"

"T'll'em...wha...wha'append…an'ah...I l...I-I lo..." The rest of the sentence came out as an unvoiced sigh as the man's eyes rolled into the back of his head. The agent's jaw slacked; his head lolled to the side a little, and the raspy breaths slowed down.

"Hawk?! Barton!" There wasn't even a flicker of awareness on the archer's laxed features. "Damn it!"

Damn it, Barton had been staying so strong…

"Dammit, agent. You're not doing this…!" Not knowing what else to do, Steve pressed on Barton's injured leg where he remembered the wound being. Guilt stung him like he had been repeatedly slapped in the face with a stack of thorns at small whimpers leaving the agent's lips despite his insentient state.

The minutes it took to reach the Tower were some of the longest Steve recalled. At least some of the most agonizing. The closer they got, all the more rapid the man's pulse got. At least it was still there. But he was white as sheet and almost unpleasantly cool already, and each panted breath was growing quieter.

"Come on, Hawk…" he muttered behind grit teeth. "Come on…!"

Even as the landing sequence was finally initiated, Steve had already propped the unconscious man into a sitting position, and he didn't waste a second when the ship finally rolled into a stop at the docking station. Barton's arm flung over his own shoulders as an extra measure to balance him, the Captain wrapped his arm tightly around the man's middle, and as if the man had weighed nothing at all, he carefully began to haul him inside.

The Cap barely paid attention to subtlety as he practically dragged the unconscious archer along the hallways. In fact, it wasn't exactly his intention. Barking out the doctor's name every now and then, Steve hoped desperately for someone to hear the racket and come for their aid already, for the love of god!

"Banneeer!"

Barton was doing poorly.

Every moment he wasn't receiving treatment in the medical bay was a moment wasted.

As the commons lounge entrance came to view, Steve for the first time noted his own elevated pulse.

The doors slid apart with a hiss.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes glued onto them instantly. To his relief, among them and already on his feet, Bruce Banner.

The scientist broke into jog to meet them halfway from the door. He didn't spare the commander even a nod as he immediately went for the waning archer. Banner's brows furrowed dangerously as he took in the man's condition.

"What happened?!"

"It was a bust!" he spat out as he made to lower Barton to the ground, swiftly followed by the doctor. "The whole op went to rack and ruin. The base was fully operational!"

The other Avengers had gathered around them in a loose circle. Thor, farther behind than most, crossed his arms, something akin to perplex being written on his features, as if he tried to wrap his mind around this. Looking almost shaken, Natasha kneeled down next to her friend, eyes darting and a rare frown morphing her features.

Banner's gaze skimmed them over, before it settled for the demigod. "We need to move him to the medical bay. And while I would love to do it myself-"

Taking the hint, Thor stepped up. "Of course, my friend." Without another word, he maneuvered one arm under the limp man's knees while the other seeked a firm position behind his shoulder blades, and hoisted him up. Efficient as that was, Captain couldn't help but grimace at the insensitive treatment of the injured leg. He was too late to protest, though, as the demigod was already stomping toward the elevator leading down to the medical bay, the limp man being jostled in his arms along with the movement.

Banner's expression was tight and he said nothing, only shook his head a little before hurrying after the duo.

As the men disappeared into the elevator, Steve let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

A hand settled on his shoulder. Tony Stark's poker face betrayed nothing, but the fingers now squeezing the commander's shoulder were trembling.

Nevertheless, the man's tone never faltered as he requested, "Jarvis? Talk to me."

* * *

Steve let out a long sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. Leaning against the large glass panel, his arms were tightly crossed over his chest as he gazed through the window offering a view into the ER chamber - and most importantly, its dormant occupant.

The heart rate monitor's stable beeping probably should have been comforting. But any solace brought by the indication of life still present in the archer was greatly overshadowed by the downheartening display surrounding. A thick cast sat around his slightly elevated leg; a network of tubes snaked over and around him: a thicker pipe running from his oxygen mask into a box about the size of an old school boombox, another slimmer one from the IV bag to the cannula implanted into the man's right arm… Steve swallowed nothing.

He almost missed the spy until she was already within a few yards. How she had managed to cross the steel-floored threshold without him noticing, Steve wouldn't begin to question. He wouldn't like the answer anyway.

Natasha cocked her head to the side as she raised a cardboard cup. "Coffee?"

Steve cracked a humorless smile. "With cream and sugar?"

"No."

"Oh, thank god." He was so eager to accept the offered mug he emptied the first half of it on one go.

The spy's eyebrow rose quizzically, but she only snorted and shook her head a little before her attention turned to the recovering man, too. "So, what happened?"

Steve flopped his hands in 'I have nothing to say for myself' way. "It blew. _I_ blew it." He didn't meet the woman's look that demanded for him to elaborate; he just did. "I made a mistake, he saved my life. ...Not much to be proud of there, to be honest."

In the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha nodding in understanding before turning back to look inside. "He doesn't blame you. He knew what he's getting into."

"I know he won't. Not sure if he should." The Captain's gaze dropped to the floor and his head ran from one side to the other slowly before he raised his eyes again. A new spark of interest furrowed his brows now. "Just before he went out, Barton said something. About...about a place in Iowa."

Natasha's hair swished with the momentum as her gaze snapped to meet the Captain's at break-neck speed. "He told you about Iowa?!"

Blinking, the Captain's brows drew closer. "You know of this," he blurted out. "He tried to. ...What does it mean?"

To his amazement, Natasha's stony expression crumbled. A warm smile broke out with a soft chuckle; gentleness Steve didn't think he had ever seen before found its way into her gaze as she again turned to look at the injured man as if in honor of some conspiracy between the two. When she faced him again, it was with a series of slight nods, those of seeing enlightenment, and she bit her lip a little. Then, "It means that he trusts you. Very much."

"Why? What's out there? What's in Iowa?"

Shaking her head slightly, Natasha gave a small shrug. "His family."

As the Captain's mouth went to 'o', the spy offered him one last grin. A sincere one; one of gratitude. She rested her hand on his briefly before she turned away and left, her dance-like steps echoing down the medical bay.

Steve watched her leave, watched the empty corridor in her wake long after she was already gone. Then, after an eon, he turned his attention back to the patient.

The coffee in his hand had gone cold long ago.


End file.
